Ethan awoke with a scream.
Not a gasp. Not a sharp inhale.
A scream.
His body jolted upright, arms flailing against the cold stone floor as if he could still feel the claws buried in his stomach, still feel the hot, wet ropes of his intestines spilling from his torn-open abdomen.
But there was nothing.
His trembling fingers clawed at his stomach. No wound. No blood. Just the sickly dampness of sweat-soaked skin. His heart pounded against his ribs, a caged animal fighting to break free.
He was alive.
Again.
His breath came in short, choked bursts. His throat was raw—had he been screaming even before he woke up? His vision blurred as his mind scrambled to make sense of the impossible.
I died.
He could still feel it.
The pressure of his skull being crushed inwards. The way his brain had pulsed with blinding pain before—before nothing.
It should've been a mercy.
It wasn't.
His mind hadn't gone silent. It had recorded everything.
The moment his ribs snapped like dry twigs. The way his lungs had collapsed under the weight of the monster's crushing grip, leaving him gasping like a fish suffocating in the open air. The awful sensation of jagged teeth scraping against his skin, the clicking noise they made before they—
Ethan gagged, bile burning its way up his throat.
He clamped a hand over his mouth, dry heaving as phantom pain pulsed through his body. It wasn't real. His body was whole again. But his mind—
His mind was fracturing.
He squeezed his eyes shut. His hands curled into fists against the stone, nails digging into his palms so hard that he nearly broke the skin. Focus. Breathe.
It took everything in him to lift his head.
The chamber was the same.
The same towering walls of black stone, slick with damp and rot. The same suffocating air, thick with the stench of something long dead.
And the same sound.
A growl.
Low. Hungry.
His body locked up, lungs seizing mid-breath. His head snapped toward the ruined archway, where the darkness shifted. A grotesque shape slithered forward, its body twitching with unnatural movements.
It was here again.
It had always been here.
It was waiting. Hunting.
And Ethan—
Ethan was going to die.
Again.
A sickening sense of déjà vu coiled around his throat like a noose. He knew what would happen. He remembered the way it would find him, the way it would tear him apart, the way it would savour his death.
But this time—
This time, so did he.
And something inside him snapped.
THE HUNT BEGINS
Ethan forced himself to breathe. Not fast. Not loud. Slow. Controlled.
The monster was blind.
He knew that. He had learned it through death.
It relied on sound. On the faintest noise.
Last time, it had found him because of a single drop of sweat hitting the stone. It was that precise.
That sensitive.
He had to be perfect.
The creature slithered closer, its grotesque limbs twitching against the stone. Its gaping maw stretched open, rows upon rows of needle-like teeth clicking together in a grotesque imitation of speech.
It was listening.
Ethan's fingers curled around the shattered femur at his feet. A broken bone. Sharp.
His only weapon.
The monster moved past him, sniffing the air. Its ribcage expanded, opened, revealing more teeth and more writhing, blinking eyes.
Ethan gritted his teeth.
"Now."
He lunged.
The moment he moved, the monster snapped toward him.
Too late.
The bone plunged into its throat.
A wet, choking hiss tore from its gaping maw. Black ichor erupted from the wound, spraying across the stone, sizzling as it hit the floor.
Its claws slashed wildly—
Ethan barely ducked in time.
He twisted, yanking the femur free, blood spraying in thick, tar-like ropes. The monster reeled, convulsing, its clicking turning frantic—pained.
It could be hurt.
It could die.
Ethan's breath came in harsh, ragged gasps. His muscles screamed, body sluggish from exhaustion—but he pushed forward.
He had to.
His fingers found another jagged piece of bone. A rib.
He didn't hesitate.
He drove it straight into the bastard's skull.
The sound it made—
A wet, cracking noise, like a watermelon bursting open.
The monster lurched violently. Its clicking stuttered.
Then—
Silence.
Its body convulsed. Then collapsed.
Black ichor pooled around it, hissing, evaporating into the damp air.
Ethan staggered back, his chest heaving. His hands—his entire body—was shaking.
"I did it."
His voice barely escaped his lips.
"I actually did it."
The monster twitched once.
Then nothing.
The chamber fell silent.
No growling. No clicking. No death.
Ethan let out a shaky breath.
And then—
It happened.
A whisper.
A voice.
Inside his head.
[You have slain: The Wretched Stalker]
[+4000 Runes]
Ethan froze.
His breath hitched. His pulse slammed against his ribs.
The words weren't spoken.
They weren't heard.
They were inside him.
A flicker of something unnatural pulsed in the air. His vision swam—symbols, numbers, options. A list. A system.
Something was changing.
A new message carved itself into his mind:
[You may rest at the Site of Grace.]
A pulse of golden light appeared ahead, flickering like fire.
Ethan's knees nearly buckled.
He was shaking again. Not from exhaustion.
Not from fear.
From the realisation that whatever this was—
It wasn't over.
It had never been over.
And he was going to die again.
Many, many more times.